


Luminary

by Brightwinged



Category: Trinity Blood
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2016-01-14
Packaged: 2018-05-13 23:24:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5720902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brightwinged/pseuds/Brightwinged
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three unrecorded encounters with Her Excellency Augusta Vradica of the New Human Empire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Luminary

The artist does not expect difficulty in completing his commission, whether or not it comes down from the Imperial courts. It is touted as the highest honor to paint the Empress' portrait, but he has all a talented artist’s arrogance, and so he thinks, _I have painted beautiful faces before._ He has also painted ugly ones, and when the pay is good enough, he has done everything in between, but that matters less. Being centred in Istavan, he has never met the Empress in person, but he counts on two certainties: one, that every face is in little ways the same; and two, that she will have all the usual vanities of his noble clients, and wish herself painted more beautiful and more perfect than she is.

A lie is the easiest thing for him to paint, or so he thinks.

For all his scoffing at the task, he must still steel his knees before he can walk into the chamber prepared for his use. There is a small slim figure already on the gilded couch, unexpected, and he hesitates before performing the deep bow that the nobles have insisted on since his youth. The parquet tiles under his feet are patterned with roses. 

“Rise, my child,” the Empress bids him.

He looks up and draws in a breath, caught off balance, for the Empress has no face. "...my Lady?"

There is a little pause, before a breeze blows in from the open window, stirring her veil into grey ripples. He stares at the void, trying to place where her smile might be, while the scent of burning oils pervades the room.

-

She doesn't even get near the apple. A hand closes viselike on her wrist before she can try, and the stallkeeper looks her up and down, all dark hair and calm eyes and Methuselah coolness. "You better not, girl,” he tells her.

Around them, the market crowds jostle and heave. Her arm will be sore for days after: the bones of her wrist grate in his grip, and these people are never gentle with their claws. "Please, sir," she says. "They're all out near home, they are. I was going to pay, only--" Only it was stupid, taking Yngvar’s dare and trying her luck here. She can feel the tears welling in her eyes. Good.

"Go home," says the stallkeeper. "Wait for more. Bother your own."

"Buuuut you haven't even done much selling today!" chirps someone at her elbow. She doesn't dare look right at her unexpected advocate, but there’s a rustle of red and gold at the blurred corners of her vision. "Be a shame, wouldn't it--?" The stallkeeper's name is tongue-tying nonsense in that talk of theirs, and he grunts in irritation. "Oh, all right. Look, kid, I don’t got any fresh fruit on me, but what would you say to some berry tea? My own blend. You can both have a cup on me, aye?”

She looks up at last, when the grip on her wrist falls away.

-

"Are you willing to die for your Empire?"

There is a monster in front of them. There is a monster with its talons in their hair, drinking in their screams; a lacy green butterfly with red eyes and tiny, sharp white teeth. 

They did what they did for the good of their people. They did what they did for the good of their family. They stare up at the butterfly and wonder how it can be so strong. 

At the last, they reach to try and tear at its wings. "Yes!" they gasp, but without air, without breath.

Their hands fall short, and then there is only sound.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written January 2008; heavily revised for posting on AO3.


End file.
